Therapeutic
by summerartist
Summary: John's therapist gives him a relaxing art project because he is steadily wearing himself out. Who says Sherlock does not care about his blogger? /fluff, humor, angst/


"Not to be too blunt, but this a bit silly, don't you think?"

"We have to get you relaxed enough to sleep, John. Either that, or you go back on the medication."

The therapist gazed at him unblinkingly, her mouth in a firm line. The clinically clean room offered little for John to look back at to avoid her keen eyes.

"All right, I'll try this stuff. But I don't expect it'll relax me. I'm no artist, and I've never really enjoyed the classes at school."

She opened her mouth to retort, but he cut her off.

"I know, I know. It won't hurt to try. Anything is better than having the nightmares and staying up."

John exhaled heavily, and looked at his shoes.

"I don't suppose I can wait for Sherlock to find a case to distract me soon. I should probably become more independent."

She smiled thinly, leaning back in her fuzzy white chair. The rays of light coming from outside did little to hide the psychiatrist's drab, modernized décor.

"Come see me again Monday of next week. Please try at least one thing on the list before then, so we can see if this will work or not before putting you on something you might not need. It is to help you, John."

"Well, I suppose the blog did turn out all right after all. I'll give it a go."

John got up, wobbling slightly. He looked back at his therapist and found her looking up at him with concern.

"I'm alright. Leg's a bit stiff is all." John reassured her.

Flushing with embarrassment, John limped out of the room and held the door open for her next patient.

* * *

><p>When John entered 221B, he found the house unusually silent, except for the sound of running water in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. It sounded like she was washing dishes. No wails from the violin permeated the air, which was unusual for his case-less flatmate.<p>

John tried to walk evenly on the stairs. His leg was really acting up today.

Sherlock's back was to the landing. His hand was hovering over a newspaper, as if in hesitation, before picking it up and tossing it on the coffee table. He turned around when John came into the living room.

"How did your session go?"

The question caught John off-guard.

"Oh, not bad. Fine. What have you been doing? Experimenting, or, God forbid, cleaning?" The doctor asked.

John settled himself into his favorite chair, stretching out his legs and wincing. Sherlock twitched ever-so-slightly as if in response; though he was pointedly looking out the window. John always had the unsettling feeling he was being watched around Sherlock. Or maybe he was just watched by the hallows of the skull on the mantelpiece too often and he was getting paranoid.

"Oh, no. Just been reading the papers"

"Found anything interesting?"

"Does it look like I found anything of interest?"

"To be honest, no"

"Ah, so you are starting to observe a little."

John ignored him and went into his room to kick off his shoes and check the therapist's list. When he came back out, Sherlock's back was turned to him again. Sherlock did not turn around and apologize, as usual.

John snatched up Sherlock's discarded newspaper and went out into the kitchen to rummage through some of the drawers.

"Is this an eel on the phonebook?"

"Yes." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Bu- Nevermind. I don't want to know.

"Why are you looking in the scrap drawer?" Sherlock asked casually.

"Oh, err-looking for stuff to use for a project from my therapist. I want to get it done tonight."

"I thought you were past the stage of receiving homework once you graduated and went into practice. " He said mildly. "Need any help?"

"Nope. It will be easy, I think; though more likely it will be a bloody waste of time."

When John emerged from his room again, his face was flushed and he had an ever-present crease on his forehead. Sherlock barely spared him a glance before he turned back to the boiling liquid on the Bunsen burner.

"Project wasn't so easy after all?"

"Tad annoying, yes." John growled.

"Paper-mâché?"

"How on Earth did you figure that out? And don't tell me it is because I have newsprint stains on my hands or a piece of tape on my shirt. And you found out that I used my laptop to look up recipes because my eyes are squinted in a way that indicates that I have been reading online."

"Actually, I figured it out because you just pulled out the flour, a cup of water, and a bowl."

John shut his eyes and shook his head. The corners of his mouth turned upwards.

While John readied the mixture, Sherlock turned off the burner, murmured something about seeing Mrs. Hudson, and disappeared.

John brought his project into the sitting room so he could see it better. He resolved to himself that he would ignore whatever snide remarks Sherlock would throw at him. He had been ordered to make a craft, after all. This one seemed the least feminine and the cheapest to complete on her list. Plus, he had most of the materials on hand.

It was either this or sleeping pills, and who knows what else. John did not want to risk developing a dependency or go on another regiment of new anti-depressant drugs.

When Sherlock came back up the stairs with his arms full, John started.

"I got some paper towel from Mrs. Hudson to make the outside coating and some newspapers for me. Why have you made a hole in your dog?"

"It's going to be a bookshelf. Hang on-why are you getting newspaper?"

"I'm bored and your therapist wouldn't want you to be doing your little project by yourself."

John stared at him.

"Fine. She emailed me and told me to help you with it."

John raised his eyebrow in disbelief, but let the lie go without comment. Sherlock industriously set to work while John started dipping pieces of torn up paper towel into the flour mixture.

"What are you making?"

"A skull so I'll have another one when Mrs. Hudson takes mine." Sherlock huffed as if it was obvious.

"It just looks like a ball of newspaper."

"As if you can insult mine yet. Your dog is lopsided. Why make a bookshelf dog and not something simpler and quicker? Your quest to make something useful is woefully misguided."

"I didn't ask you to join me anyway."

A flash of hurt flew across Sherlock's face, so quickly; John thought he had imagined it.

"Does Mrs. Hudson know she supplied materials for your skull project?" John tried to change the subject.

"No." Sherlock suddenly presented his creation for John's inspection. He smiled devilishly.

John's jaw dropped and he made a noise like a cat being stepped on.

"How the bloody hell can you make something like that so quickly? It's so realistic it's unreal! I haven't even covered a fourth of the dog yet!"

Triumphantly, Sherlock stole from John's stack of paper towel pieces and set to work making a coating for the skull.

They were still making small talk when Sherlock's long arm caught against the bowl between them, sloshing the pasty mixture on John's leg. Sherlock muttered a quick "excuse me" before continuing his artwork as if it never happened.

He missed the mischievous glint in John's eye before he noticed a glob of white flour sailing towards his chin. Sherlock smoothly dodged, but it grazed his sleeve. He stopped his determined work altogether and his eyes widened.

He stared at the goop dripping from his posh dressing gown before launching a floury missile of his own at John's temple. John groaned as he tried to wipe away the sticky stuff from his hair, dodging Sherlock's continued assaults.

John snuck to the bowl and dipped his hands in, getting too close to the detective to avoid getting the stuff shoved down his collar. Seeing John's dripping hands, Sherlock leaned back.

John outstretched his messy hands towards Sherlock, but the detective ran towards the kitchen. John gave chase…and tripped over a book on the floor. He landed with a crash and a grunt. His outstretched limb, which was aimed at Sherlock's back, came in contact with Sherlock's lower back. It left a large white handprint near Sherlock's backside. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, about to ask if he was alright, but stopped when he noticed the blatant handprint on his behind.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline and he froze. John got to his feet, flushing with a little with embarrassment. He opened his mouth to apologize and shut it again, waiting for a response of some kind.

All of the sudden, Sherlock started to laugh. It was not the adrenaline high giggle they had shared after chasing the cab, but a truly light-hearted laugh. John found himself grinning as Sherlock's voice boomed through the house and rang in the air like music.

In hindsight, John should have known that all their day's activities of borrowing supplies from Mrs. Hudson, working quietly in the living room, and then Sherlock's resounding laughter would have made anyone happening to be downstairs curious. But all the same, he was startled when Mrs. Hudson opened the door to peek in. Her expression was nonplussed, though when she saw the tell-tale handprint on Sherlock she hurriedly closed the door and apologized for not knocking first.

After a bout of chuckles, they cleaned up their newspapers and paper towels, still weak and shaky with laughter. John set aside the dog and the skull to dry.

In the coming years no one asked or took notice of the luridly painted paper-mâché dog and skull in their living room, except for Henry, who had paled at the sight and asked if John could please move the dog into a different room.

Unknown to John, Sherlock kept the memory in his hard drive for reasons he could hardly explain. Perhaps it was that he had had his first real laugh in what seemed like years, or that he had discovered his and John's painting skills were horrible. Maybe it was because that John got up the next morning, walking steadily, without any shadows under his eyes and that Sherlock had grinned triumphantly.


End file.
